


Mr. Robotics

by orphan



Category: Until Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-04 17:57:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5343224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan/pseuds/orphan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on <a href="http://thatrandomotaku.tumblr.com/post/133510635582">thatrandomotaku</a> post from Tumblr: <em>Guys, guys, just hear me out. Cute, nerdy, innocent Chris pining after bad boy Josh in a High School au. Just think about it.</em> With my <a href="http://orphanfalls.tumblr.com/post/133519107680/thatrandomotaku-guys-guys-just-hear-me-out">own addition</a>: <em>No but bad boy Josh pining back and thinking cute, nerdy, innocent Chris could never be interested in a fuckup like him.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. “Hey nerd, you’re with me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this gets kind of heavy in parts, because it's teen angst bingo. So we have **mental illness, underage alcoholism, racially motivated violence, casual use of slurs, self-harm, statutory rape, unsafe sex, and suicide ideation**.
> 
> Nothing is particularly explicit in the narrative itself, but... yeah. Warnings to be on the safe side. If anyone needs more specific, chapter-by-chapter summaries, hit me up at [Tumblr](http://orphanfalls.tumblr.com/).
> 
> The first few chapters of this were originally posted at Tumblr. So, uh. Sorry if you're reading them again. New stuff is coming, I swear!

“Hey nerd, you’re with me.”

It starts in Robotics class. Specifically, the day Ms. Ahn has them pair up for the latest group assignment. The entire class groans as she says it, entire class except for Chris and Ashley, who give each other high-fives. Group assignment with the two of them? Piece of cake.

That is, until Josh freakin’ Washington crashes their party.

“E-excuse me?” Chris stutters. Josh is leaning across his desk, dark brows drawn down into a scowl, his nose nearly up against Chris’. Chris pulls back, feels the heat creeping into his cheeks and tries in vain to will it down.

“I said,” Josh growls, “you’re with me. For this group shit.”

“Uh—”

“Listen, nerd. I can’t afford to fail this class. You wouldn’t want to be responsible for me failing this class, would you?” Josh’s grin is razor-sharp and cannibal bright. Chris swallows, the sound thick and heavy even in the dull roar of the classroom.

“I—”

“Good,” Josh says. “Fuckin’ great. Nice working with you, nerd.” Then he’s straightening up, and stalking off, and Chris is left feeling like he’s been mauled by some kind of wild animal.

“Holy. Shit.” Ashley sounds about as stunned as Chris feels. “So. That… happened.”

Chris nods. Yeah. Apparently it did.

* * *

These are the things Chris knows about Josh freaking’ Washington.

One, the guy’s loaded. His dad is some Hollywood bigwig; director or producer or something, Chris isn’t all down with the terms. Chris has seen at least five films with “Bob Washington” somewhere in the credits, and feels a little jolt of thrill every time. Kind of his own weird dumb degrees of separation thing he can use as an icebreaker in college.  _You know I went to high school with that guy’s kid?_

Two, Josh freakin’ Washington is an only child. He used to have two sisters, but there was some kind of accident up at the family ski lodge or whatever, and now he doesn’t.

Three, losing his sisters messed Josh up. Big time. Or maybe Josh was always messed up, and being alone made it worse. Either way, the guy’s a psycho, and the whole school knows it.

Four, Josh freakin’ Washington is the hottest thing since the inside of the Large Hadron Collider. He’s all big sharp grin and wide green eyes, and the sort of smooth bronze skin Chris would be one-hundred-percent okay with running his hands over, like, forever. And maybe Chris has a thing for hot messes and this is something no one knows except for Ashley. Chris is already a certified chess club loser. He doesn’t need to be the school faggot as well.

“You could’ve told him to get lost,” Ashley says later, at lunch. “What was he going to do? In front of Ms. Ahn?”

Chris just shrugs, keeping his eyes firmly glued to the  _Minecraft_  on his phone. It’s a dumb kid’s game but whatever. Playing it means not having this conversation with Ash.

Ash, who’s sidling up against him, elbow nudging into the chub below his ribs. “ _I_  think,” she says, voice low and conspiratorial, “you didn’t  _want_  to tell him to get lost.”

“Washington’s a psycho,” Chris mutters into his screen.

The comment earns him a shove against his shoulder that has his thumb slipping and mining a door by mistake. He curses, but Ash isn’t done. “You can’t say that!” she tells him.

“Why not?” Chris says. “It’s true, isn’t it? The guy pops like twelve pills a day.”

“Ohmigawd. Dude. Not okay.”

“He says so himself!” This, in Chris’ defense, is true. Most of the school rumors about Josh freakin’ Washington can be traced directly back to Josh freakin’ Washington. Most of them. And the rest, people are too scared to say out loud on school grounds.

“That doesn’t make it okay to repeat them,” Ashley says. “One in five people experience mental illness in their life, you know.”

“Gee, thanks for the PSA, Tumblr,” Chris snaps. “Got any, tilde, friendly reminders, tilde, on how to survive my group assignment while you’re at it?”

Ashley gives him a knowing little smirk. “Just be yourself,” she says.

_Yeah,_  Chris thinks.  _Right._

* * *

He is such a fucking idiot. So much. Like, visible-from-space levels. His stomach has been tying itself in knots ever since that stupid fucking Robotics class, his hands shaking so bad he drops his stupid fucking pills all over the bathroom floor. He has to scramble to pick them up, and that’s fucking disgusting, but he downs them anyway with a whiskey chaser, figuring the alcohol will cancel out the chlamydia or whatever-the-fuck-else it is one picks up off the bathroom fucking floor.

Fuck. He’s late. His watch buzzed at him like an hour ago, then again half an hour, then fifteen minutes. Now it’s buzzing again to tell him he should be in the library, ready to fucking learn some fucking Robotics. If he’s late, Chris might leave. And if Chris leaves…

_Of course Chris is going to leave, dipshit. Why would he stay?_

His shrink would tell him to lay off the negative self-talk, Joshua, but his shrink is why Josh is late in the first place, so fuck him. Asking so many dumbass questions about The Latest Incident, the one that left Josh with a cracked rib and stupid fucking Austin McIntyre with a broken nose. Fuck McIntyre and fuck Dr. Hill, basically.

“Fuck your own dirty, gaping ass,” Josh tells his reflection. Then he goes to find Chris.

* * *

Chris is still in the library, sitting hunched over a stack of books, when Josh finally gets himself together enough to arrive.

“Hey, nerd,” he says, then instantly wants to die. He’s  _such_  a fuckup. He throws himself down in the chair across from Chris before the guy can react, hands jammed in the pockets of his hoodie to try and hide the shaking.

Chris looks up, blinking his big dumb nerd eyes behind his big dumb nerd glasses. God, he’s so fucking cute. Josh just wants to fucking eat him, and isn’t that entirely the problem?

“Um,” says Chris. “Are… are you okay?”

This is… not what Josh was expecting as a response, and his drugged-out, half-drunk brain has to scramble to find a different script before he can respond.

“What?” Oh, yeah. Feel that Washington smoothness. His sisters would be so fucking proud of their big bro.

Chris looks down, not fast enough to hide the blush. The one that makes the knots in Josh’s gut feel more like butterflies. “Um,” says Chris. “Don’t worry about it. I just… your, um…” He makes a vague gesture towards his face, and Josh has to copy it—has to feel his own stupid fucking fingers press against his own split-open skin—to know what Chris means.

“Oh,” Josh says. “Right. Lucky shot. Other guy got it worse.” He gives his best shit-eating grin, feeling the scab on his lip split open as he does. He doesn’t mention the fact his rib aches every time he takes a breath. Fucking McIntyre.

“Looks like it hurts,” says Chris. He keeps half looking up, then back down again whenever Josh’s eyes meet his. Josh wants to grab him by the collar, drag him into the stacks, and blow him till he screams.

_Like he’d ever let a sick fuck like you touch him,_  say Josh’s Unhelpful Self-Talk. Today he can’t decide whether it sounds like Beth, like his dad, or like Chris. His fingers are sweat-slicked where they curl tight around the hip flask in his pocket. He’s not nearly buzzed enough for this, to be sitting so close to so much delicious, virgin nerd. But if he gets caught drinking on school grounds again, he’s a fucking dead man.

He must be vagueing like a doped-up freak, because Chris is saying something, shuffling the pile in front of him, looking for his notes. Josh is staring at the beautiful way Chris’ throat moves when he speaks so it takes a moment to realize Chris is after the assignment sheet.

“Wait up,” Josh’s mouth says. “Gimmie a sec.” He reaches down under the table, rummaging around in his satchel. “Here.” He retrieves the MacBook from his bag, tossing it on the desk and pushing it towards Chris.

Chris eyes it like it’s on fire. “You bring a laptop to  _school_?”

“It’s just a stupid Air.” Josh has a proper MacBook at home, the one he does his assignments for Film with. It’s basically the only class he isn’t failing. Dad said if he didn’t stop fucking up everything else, he’d have to drop it, because Dad is nothing if not a giant asshole. When he could be bothered coming home. Which is never.

“Are you even allowed to have this?” Chris is saying.

Josh shrugs, feeling like an idiot. “Whatever,” he says. “If you don’t wanna use it—”

“No!” says Chris, maybe a bit too fast. “No, it’s cool. Um. Thank you.” There’s that blush again. And half a smile and, fuck. Josh has it bad. He sneaks a drink, just one, while Chris is busy with the laptop. The Lagavulin tastes like dragon’s piss, the good stuff. It sits warm and easy in Josh’s wrecked stomach, settles some of the shaking in his hands. It’s okay. He’s got this. He’s Josh fuckin’ Washington, of course he’s got this. He folds his arms, pressing the fingers of one hand against his cracked rib. The pain helps him focus.

“Okay,” Chris says. “So, like. Here’s the assignment.” He turns the laptop around so they can both see, Ms. Ahn’s shitty website displaying in all its default-font glory. “It’s not too hard,” Chris continues. “Just research questions basically. Um. You wanna, um…” He trails off, glances up. Josh tries to soften his scowl a little beneath the shadow of his hoodie. From Chris’ expression, it doesn’t work.

“I can do whatever,” Josh says. Then, almost as an afterthought, tries adding, “Bro.” That’s… friendly, right? Fuck. It’s been so long. Josh is almost certain he used to be good at this, way back before everything went to shit.

“Um, okay,” Chris says, pushing the laptop back his way. “How ‘bout taking notes? Um. No point writing everything by hand if we can just type it up now.”

“Sure, bro.” The word seems to work last time, so Josh tries it again. When it earns him half an awkward smile, Josh knows he’s going to keep it up until he dies.

* * *

“We still gotta choose an industry.”

Two hours later. Working with Josh is… It’s actually pretty cool. The guy had been super late and Chris had been shitting himself, would’ve walked out if his fear of a Washington-induced death hadn’t been so strong. And then Josh had shown up, reeking of alcohol, mouth busted open and half his face covered in a purple-green bruise, and…

… and it hadn’t been too bad. Chris had figured he’d just have to do all the work himself, which is why he’d already started by the time Josh arrived. But, lo and behold, because Josh’s nose is currently buried in a book, pen hanging from his lips.

“So I’m thinking, like… what about companion robots?” Josh is saying.

“Huh?” says Chris, suddenly glad Josh is busy reading and not, like. Noticing Chris has spent the last five minutes fantasizing about what it would be like to be a Biro.

“Companion robots.” Bright green eyes look up beneath shadowed lids, and Chris thinks he’s going to die right then and there. Die, or pop a boner, and he knows which one would be worse.  _Other guy got it worse,_  Josh had said. Chris doesn’t want to wind up Other Guy 2.0.

“You mean, like, sexbots?” says Chris, face immediately turning scarlet because, holy shit, he just said the word “sexbots”  _out loud_.

Josh laughs. It’s more of a startled bark, but it’s a laugh. “Bro,” he says. “No, bro. I mean, like. For sick people and shit. Like this fucking seal thing.” He holds up the books he’s reading, showing Chris a black-and-white photo of an Asian guy in a business suit hugging what looks like a stuffed baby seal. “They give it to, like, old people or whatever,” Josh is saying. “To make them feel better.”

“Um…” says Chris. Honestly, he was expecting Josh to suggest they go with military robotics. Or sexbots. Chris had been kind of getting the courage to suggest they choose space exploration.

He must stare too long, because Josh scowls and looks away. “Or not,” he says. “I guess it’s lame—”

“No!” Which, okay. Maybe a bit too loud in the quiet library, but Chris has a sudden, almost painful, need to interject. Because Josh had suggested something kind of sweet, and unexpected, and for a moment when he’d suggest it, he’d just looked so… so  _earnest_. So beautiful. And maybe Chris wants that expression back, if only for a moment. Wants something other than that broken, angry scowl.

“No, man,” he says. “It’s a good idea. The seal is cute.” He tries a smile. When he gets one in return, he can’t help the way his stomach feels like it folds over on itself.

“Bitches will fucking love it,” says Josh.

Chris forces a laugh and tries not to wince. “Yeah, sure,” he says. “I know Robotics is where I go to pick up girls.” There are, like, three in their entire class.

Josh just gives a crooked grin. “Like that Ashley chick?” he says. “You boning her or what?”

Chris feels himself go absolutely scarlet. “Ash? I, uh… No! She’s like my best friend. We’re not… Y’know.”

“You should, man,” Josh says. “She’s fucking hot. I bet she’d let you.”

“Dude! No! It’s Ash. I mean… I’m not…”

“What?” Josh is practically leering. “Not into chicks? That’s fuckin’ gay, bro.”

Chris just sighs. “Yeah, man,” he says. “You got it in one. Not being into chicks is literally the definition of ‘fucking gay’.” He thinks for a moment, then adds, “If you’re a dude.” Because Ashley would expect him to. He tries not to feel the way his hands are shaking under the table. Did he just… come out to Josh freakin’ Washington? Oh, fuck. He is so dead.

Except Josh just laughs, his green eyes practically glowing under the flickering library fluorescents. Chris really likes that laugh. Really likes  _causing_  that laugh. If he can make Josh freakin’ Washington laugh every day for the rest of his life, Chris thinks he can die a happy (if sexually frustrated) man.


	2. "Alright, Mr. Hollywood. I've shown you mine, now you show me yours."

“So how did you study date with  _Jo-oo-osh_  go?”

Chris hunches down, eyes darting around to make sure no one's listening. "Ash!" he hisses. "Don't— don't call it that!" Ashley just laughs, shoving into his shoulder. Chris shoves back, just a little. "I'll have you know," he says, voice measured and haughty, "that our study  _session_  went very well."

"Ooh." Ash matches Chris' tone, eyebrows raised and mouth a pouty little pink bow. "Do tell."

"Well," Chris says, "Mr. Washington was a  _very_  agreeable study partner, we breezed through the assignment, and I'll have you know our presentation is going to kick the shit out of yours and everyone else's." Chris grins, Ash returns it.

"Oh. Oh, it's on, nerdboy. It. Is. On." She laughs, all pink cheeks and soft skin.  _She's hot_ , Josh had said, and he hadn't been lying. If Chris swung that way…

… If he did, but he doesn't. So instead he says, "You know, I think Josh likes you."

This earns him something more scoff than laugh. "What?"

"Seriously. He was asking if we're, like, together." He gestures between the two of them. 

"So?"

"So-oo-oo…" Chris drawls. Then, when Ashley just raised her eyebrows in response. "He said you were hot."

"Well, duh. I mean, he has  _eyes_ , right?" But she's blushing, and Chris can't help his grin. 

"Cute, rich, troubled. I dunno, man. You could do worse."

"Hey. You're the one who's into bad boys, not me."

"You know his laptop wallpaper is a photo of him and his sisters."

"Uh-uh, don't even try. Too much work."

"When they were, like, eight."

"Nope. Not falling for it."

"It's at Halloween. They're in costume."

"I told you. Not falling for it." A pause, a grin. "But it sounds like you are."

Chris thinks about that photo, glimpsed between Command-Tabbing from Safari to Pages. Thinks of tousled dark hair and a wide-bright grin, peeking out from beneath a  _Friday the 13th_  hockey mask. Chris grins. "Yeah," he says. "Maybe a little."

Not that it helps.

* * *

It takes Josh twenty minutes on Grindr to find what he's looking for: tall, pudgy, dumb blond hair, stupid hipster glasses. The guy isn't perfect—he's too old, too talkative—and he's a lousy fuck. But he gets Josh off and doesn't ask stupid fucking questions like "who's Chris?" and "just how old are you, anyway?"

Afterwards, he asks if they can see each other again. Josh doesn't even bother responding, just pulls his hoodie up over his head and heads home.

* * *

Mom is asleep on the kitchen table when he gets back, papers spread out all around her. He wakes her up and tells her to go to bed. She touches his cheek and tells him he's a good boy (he isn't), asks him whether he's taken his pills (he has, and then some). She doesn't ask where he's been, or why he smells like cum and cheap vodka, but Josh can see the tears pricking at the corners of her eyes as she kisses him goodnight. He sends her to bed, she tells him she loves him for about the tenth time. A little piece of Josh curls up and dies every time she does. The little piece that wonders why he can't be better. For her, or for anyone.

He heads to his own bedroom and stares at his reflection for a long time, wondering who it is he sees in the mirror. Some wasted, half-starved monster, hungry for something it will never find. In the bathroom cabinet, behind the pill bottles, is a box of razor blades. The old fashioned kind. Josh has a old fashioned razor to put them in, which is why they're allowed in his bathroom. He looks at them for a long time before deciding it wouldn't be fair to bail on Chris after he hijacked the guy's group fucking project away from his hot girlfriend. After, maybe. 

"Sorry I can't come see you yet," he tells the photo of Beth and Hannah on the bedside table. "There's this dumb guy in my Robotics class. I kinda made him do the group project with me. I guess it should at least finish it with him." A pause. Josh tries not to notice sobriety is creeping up on him. "I… You'd like him, I think. The dumb guy. His name's Chris. I—" But Josh's voice chokes, and the rest of the sentence won't come through.

There are some thoughts, he thinks, too pathetic even for his dead sisters to hear.

* * *

"You gotta calm down, bro. Talk slower."

Chris looks up from his notes, scowling and pushing his glasses up his nose. "Easy for you to say," he mutters. "I hate class presentations."

Another day, another study session with Josh. They've done the research and written the speech. Now they just have to practice the material. 

Josh just shrugs. "It's just me, bro," he says. "No class in sight." He opens his arms wide to demonstrate, grin broad and half-drunk.

He's wearing a beanie today. Some slouchy knitted thing. It should look stupid and it totally doesn't and Chris can't work out which of the butterflies in his stomach are about the presentation and which are about Josh freakin' Washington. 

"You're pretty chill about all this," Chris snaps, trying to cover for the fact he isn't.

"It's a good presentation," Josh says, calm and easy. "Thanks to you. We'll totally nail it, no need to freak."

"Alright, Mr. Hollywood. I've shown you mine, now you show me yours." Chris tries not to blush himself out of existence as soon as he says it, failing miserably. Particularly when Josh just wriggles his eyebrows and unfolds himself from his chair.

"Sit down," he says, "and prepare to be wowed."

Ten minutes later, Chris has to admit it; Josh is fucking  _good_. Better than that. He's a natural performer, vibrant and engaging, pacing around the room as if it were a stage, speaking not from a script like Chris had been, but off the top of his head. Even so, he hits every single talking point.

When he's done, he opens his arms wide, as if waiting for applause. "Ta da," he says. "Like I said. Piece of cake."

"Holy. Shit."

Josh just grins, throws himself back down in his chair. He pulls out his hip flask and takes a swig.

"Gimmie that," Chris announces, reaching for the flask. "If that's your secret, I want some."

Josh holds it out of reach, fighting Chris off with his free hand. "Naw, bro," he says. "You don't want to start that, trust me."

"I don't want to crap out on this presentation, is what I don't want. Why did you say you needed my help to pass this, again?"

"Like I said, it's easy when you've got good material. You know your shit. You told me. Now I tell the class. Magic, everyone gets an A." He smiles, big and easy. The bruise is fading off the side of his face and, just for a moment, Chris' breath catches in his throat. He wonders how it was he ever thought he was afraid of Josh freakin' Washington. 

"I never get As in presentations," Chris confesses. "I just… I dunno. Suck at them. A lot."

"I told you, bro," Josh says, "you talk too fast. Makes you trip over your words 'n' shit. This is a lecture, not a comedy sketch. Slow the fuck down. Like, however slow you think is slow, then twice as slow again. You'll feel like a dipshit at first but it works, trust me."

Chris does, but isn't going to say so. Instead he says, "Any more handy tips?"

Josh thinks for a moment, then: "Yeah. Real basic fucking one. Find one or two people on the audience who're friendly, and give your talk to them. I mean, look around at everyone and shit, but, like… your girlfriend'll be in the room, right?"

"Bro, I told you she's not my girlfriend."

"Whatever, nerd. But she'll be there. She'll be listening and shit 'cause she's your girl. She wants you to do well. So talk to her, give your speech to her. You talk to her all the time, right? Probably bore her to tears with nerdy shit all the time—"

"Ash likes quote-unquote 'nerdy shit', too, asshole." But Chris is smiling, and Josh doesn't miss a beat. 

"Even better, bro. So talk to her and, like, pick one other person. Forget everyone else."

Chris thinks this over for a moment. "And that… works?"

Which earns him another shrug. "It's not magic," Josh says. "But it helps. Acting School 101 shit right there."

"Talk slow, and direct to someone in the audience—"

"Try two. And keep looking around every now and again."

"Okay," Chris says. "I got this."

"You got this, bro," Josh affirms. "Run through one more time."

Chris does, because it's Josh who's asking, and Chris is fast discovering his ability to deny Josh freakin' Washington requests is next to zero. He does what Josh says, slowing himself right down, scanning his eyes across an imaginary audience, settling them on Josh when delivering home a particularly interesting point. Josh grins his beautiful grin, leaning back on two legs of his chair. But he's listening, and only interrupts Chris twice with a, "Slow down, bro. Slo-oo-oo-ow."

Josh is right; it does make Chris feel like an idiot, but when he's done it earns him a double thumbs-up and a, "Nailed it, bro." So Chris figures maybe it's all worth it.

He tries to hide his blush at the praise by rummaging through his backpack, looking for his phone.

"So, um," he says when he finds it, checks the time on the screen. "There's, like, fifteen minutes of lunch left. Then we gotta deliver this thing to the class. So I was wondering if, um…" He trails off, courage failing when what had sounded casual and reasonable in his head suddenly looks awkward and clinging in the daylight. He sneaks a look at Josh, who's paused, watching, hip flask halfway to his mouth.

Josh, Chris thinks, drinks way too much for a high-schooler. Which is to say, anything at all. Chris scowls, has a sudden deep longing to say something that will get Josh to put the goddamn flask away, to sober up, even if just for an afternoon.

So Chris says: "I was wondering if you wanna come hang out with us until class starts?" It's not much—as if Josh freakin' Washington  _wants_  to hang out with Chris and his loser friends—but it's what he has.

Josh looks at him for a moment like he's grown an extra head, and Chris stares back. Daring Josh to… what? To laugh in Chris' face, maybe. To remind him they're just doing a stupid project together, that they aren't even friends, bro.

Except that Chris is pretty sure that they are. Or could be.

So it's a moment, a long moment. Then Josh lowers his hip flask, screws the cap back on and says, "Sure, bro. Sounds fun."

* * *

It ends up being awkward. Ashley is practically squeeing when Chris walks back to their spot with Josh freakin' Washington in tow, but the others are more wary. Josh, for his part, says almost nothing the entire time, just sits close to Chris, chin on his drawn-up knees. Chris notices his hands are shaking, just a little. So maybe Mr. Presentations-Are-Easy-Bro is more nervous than he lets on, and the thought of it gives Chris a fluttery little feeling in his gut.

He's been getting better, or trying to; forcing himself to think of Josh only as a friend, not… not anything more than that. It works. Mostly. Except for when it doesn't. Like when Chris wants to take Josh's shaking hands in his and kiss each and every knuckles, still bruised and broken-open from old fights.

Chris doesn't want Josh to fight, and doesn't want him to drink, and does want him to curl up with his head on Chris' chest and…

Yeah, okay. That whole "platonic friendship" thing? Still working on that one.

Just before they go into class, Josh's watch—his Apple Watch, the one Chris has been secretly thirsting over for months—starts buzzing. Josh glances around awkwardly at the sound, but no one is really paying him much attention (except for Chris, who's pretending not to be). Josh seems to come to a decision, and rummages in his satchel. Chris can't see what he's doing, exactly, but when Josh puts a hand over his mouth, then throws his head back and swallows thickly, Chris realizes he must be taking his medication. So at least that rumor is, in fact, true.

Chris isn't sure how many pills Josh just dry-swallowed, but the thought makes him wince, so he says, "You want some water for that, bro?"

Josh startles at the words, looking up with wide green eyes like he's just been caught doing something he shouldn't. Which, for a guy who's routinely plastered on school property; interesting.

Chris just tries to soften his expression and adds, "Got some in my bag if you need it. Promise I don't have too many diseases."

Josh swallows again, and Chris can  _see_  him force himself to relax. "Naw, bro," Josh says after a moment. "I'm good." Then, almost as an afterthought. "Um. Thanks thought." And a smile, soft and self-depreciating and miles from Josh's usual laconic grin.

Chris returns it, and tries to tell himself the butterflies in his gut are nothing but platonic.

* * *

The presentation goes really, really well. Josh breezes through his parts like he's born to inform bored teenagers about advancements in therapeutic robotics. Chris stumbles a bit over his but remembers what Josh told him and focuses on Ashley. She grins and nods and, okay. Josh was right; this is kind of just like nerding out with her one-on-one, and Chris can  _totally_  do that. They must do okay, because she gives him a hug afterwards and tells him he did great. Josh notices, and wriggles his eyebrows suggestively, muttering "Bone Zone, bro" under his breath.

Chris has no idea what that is, but he can totally guess. And even though Josh is putting on a good front, there's a kind of reserved sadness around the edges that makes Chris start planning ways to convince Josh, once and for all, that he and Ash aren't together, really, it's not like that, bro, if you want a shot go for it.

Chris is still thinking about this when Josh offers to drive him home. Robotics is their last period of the day, and Chris hasn't seen Josh drink since lunchtime, so decides to risk accepting the offer. They're halfway across the parking lot when Austin McIntyre appears and, in his own asshole way, solves Chris' dilemma for him.

It's not just McIntyre, of course. It's McIntyre and three of his asshole friends from the football team, and they announce themselves with a, "Hey, ISIS. Don't you turn your back on me, raghead."

Chris hears Josh say "fuck", very clearly and distinctly, and everything goes downhill from there.

* * *

This is the thing about Josh freakin' Washington everyone knows, and no one has the guts to talk about on school grounds. No one, that is, except Austin fucking McIntyre and his broken nose and his three meatshield friends.

"You know our name's not really 'Washington', right?" Josh says later. They're in Chris' room, Chris pressing a pack of frozen peas against Josh's fresh-bruised eye. They got away relatively easy, thanks to Mr. Ferris having to go back to get a stack of essays from his car. Chris ended up driving them home once McIntyre had run. Josh's car is pretty sweet.

"It's Abdel Sayed," Josh is saying, reaching up to hold the peas in place. "Dad just changed it because you can't be called fucking Abdel fucking Sayed and get production credits in Hollywood."

"That's lame, bro," says Chris, because it is, but structural racism in the film industry seems like too much to handle in one afternoon. Instead, Chris focuses on the problem he can help with, and lets go of the peas. "Unbutton your shirt," he says. "Let me see your ribs, too."

"No homo," Josh says, but complies. Chris tries both not to wince and not to stare too much at the warm bronze skin of Josh's chest, mottled by purple-green bruises. "You know the fucked-up thing?" Josh is saying. "We're not even fucking Muslim, we're Christian. That's why my parents came here in the first fucking place." The way his chest moves when he speaks is… interesting. Very, very…  _interesting_.

"Don't think they let Christians into ISIS, bro," says Chris' mouth, mostly because his brain is occupied elsewhere. It's a shit of a thing to say, but it makes Josh laugh.

"Yeah," he replies. "Well, don't think they let faggots in, either. You reckon I should try telling McIntyre that, next time?"

Chris is so busy imagining there's not a pack of frozen corn in between his hand and Josh's chest that it takes him three whole seconds to process what Josh just said. When he does, it's like his entire body goes numb; a physical wave of revelation he can  _feel_ , shuddering from the top of his scalp to the tip of his toes.

"You… you're  _gay_?" he manages to say. When he dares to look up, green eyes are regarding him with a kind of shadowed wariness.

"Yeah, bro," Josh says. "You gonna be weird about it, or what?" He's trying to seem like it's no big deal, but Chris can  _hear_  the tiny waver of fear underneath. Like he's worried Chris is going to freak, to be weird, to push Josh back and rip his hands away and any one of ten million things and the shit of it, the real shit of it is, Chris wants to do  _every single one_. Wants to do every one, for exactly the opposite reason Josh is thinking.

And maybe it's the heartbeat under his hand, the one Chris knows realistically he can't feel through twelve ounces of frozen corn, but still totally  _can_ … Maybe it's that, or maybe it's the look in Josh's eyes or the rollercoaster of an afternoon they've had, Chris' body still coming down off the adrenaline from his first ever not-quite-schoolyard fight…

Maybe it's all of that, and the waver in Josh's voice.  _You gonna be weird about it_ , he'd asked. And Chris, high on the moment, licks his lips and says, "Yeah. Yeah, bro. I am."

And then he leans forward, and gives his first ever kiss to Josh freakin' Washington.

 


	3. "I can’t, like, do the boyfriend thing."

Josh’s life is one fucked-up train wreck, no denying it. And to think he’d almost started to believe he was doing better. Things had been going okay with Chris. Really. They’d breezed through their stupid project, Josh had hung out with Chris’ dumb friends, and Chris even smiles at him now when they pass in the hall. Things had been going great, really.

“I think… I think we might even be friends,” Josh had confessed to his sisters, just that morning. 

And then Austin fucking McIntyre had to go and ruin everything.

Chris kisses like a fucking virgin, which is to say, terribly. Josh doesn’t give one single shit, not when he’s too busy pushing Chris back, down against the bed, tossing aside bags of frozen vegetables as he does. Chris makes a startled little noise in the back of his throat, but goes down easy enough, hands fluttering over Josh’s shoulders in their inexperienced awkwardness before gently settling against his skin.

_Fuck,_  Josh thinks. Fuck. Chris is touching him, Chris is kissing him, is spreading his thighs as Josh settles in between them, and it is  _exactly_  as fucking amazing as Josh imagined for all those boring hours, staring at the back of the guy’s head. Because Chris is big and dumb and sweet and virginal and nothing like anyone or anything Josh has fucked since he was…

Since that was him.

Chris is panting in between kisses, trying to keep up and failing, fingers digging into Josh’s shoulders hard enough to hurt. He keeps gasping like maybe he wants to say something, but unless it’s  _no_  or  _stop_  Josh doesn’t want to hear it. The last thing he wants is a fucking conversation, so the next time Chris seems to want to start one, Josh rubs his hand on Chris’ dick. Through the jeans, but he can feel the hot, hard shaft, straining behind the zipper.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Josh says. “Knew you’d be hung. Shy nerds, man. Fuck.”

Chris makes a weird sort of sound at the comment, his hips bucking up, his hands drifting lower, down the plans of Josh’s back. They stop when they get to the waistband of Josh’s jeans, and the hesitation sends coils of heat lashing below Josh’s belly. Fuck. He’s got his hand on Chris’ cock and Chris is shy about touching Josh’s ass in return. Fuck.

Josh makes short work of Chris’ fly, and Chris arches with a, “Oh! Fuck!” when Josh’s hand wraps around his dick. Chris’ hands, meanwhile, are back to fluttering, fisting and un-fisting like he doesn’t know what to do, which he probably doesn’t, so Josh makes it easy on him, pushing up his shirt and kissing a long trail across pale skin and a soft belly. Then he swallows Chris’ dick whole.

Or, mostly whole. Josh hasn’t had a gag reflex for years but Chris is big and thick and perfect. Heavy in Josh’s mouth, his lips stretched wide, throat full. Josh moans, eyes drifting shut, mind blanking as he lets his body fall into the one rhythm it knows above all else can quiet the riot in his brain.

It’s so fucking good. Chris is passive and useless and whimpering, every bit the receptive virgin fuck Josh has spent many a Robotics class daydreaming over. He doesn’t thrust or grab or try and take control, just fists his hands in the sheets, his hips jerking up and down in little involuntary spasms.

It’s over too quickly, because it was always going to be. Chris’ hand grasping against Josh’s, a breathless, “Oh, fuck. Fuck, I’m gonna—” that Josh cuts off with a suck that hits him right in the back of his mouth.

“Fuck!” Chris says again. Then he’s coming, hot and salty down Josh’s throat.

Josh sucks him dry, until Chris is a shivering, whimpering mess. Josh’s own dick is hard and aching but he ignores it, just shimmies back up the bed to lie on his side and wait for Chris’ eyes to open.

When they do, Chris turns them onto Josh and the dumbfounded amazement makes him want to scream.

Josh fuckin’ Washington, Josh knows, is an impulsive, self-destructive piece of shit. Chris, as it turns out, is a cuddler.

* * *

_Holy shit._

It’s all Chris’ mind has been able to think for, like, the last half hour. Just  _holy shit_  repeated on endless loop, over and over, occasionally interspersed with  _does this mean I’m not a virgin?_  and  _I should do something for Josh, too_.

At the moment, what Chris is doing mostly involves running his hands over skin exactly as warms and smooth and soft as he’d imagined. There’s a small cluster of moles on Josh’s left shoulder, and Chris traces the slightly raised bumps with his fingers and, holy shit. If he’d known sex was this easy, he’d’ve kissed Josh months ago.

His whole body feels warm and heavy and sleepy, Josh a pleasant weight where he’s buried in against Chris’ side. Chris is still clothed and Josh hasn’t cum, but Chris’ parents won’t be home for a few hours yet and, holy fucking shit. Him. And Josh. And…

And Josh had obviously known what he was doing, in exactly the way Chris didn’t. Still doesn’t. Doesn’t, but wants to, and maybe it’ll be like with the presentation thing again, Josh patiently giving advice and watching Chris practice, slowly getting better.

Chris would really, really like to get better at sex with Josh freakin’ Washington. Starting now. He’s trying to figure out how to suggest this, in fact— _is “ready for round two?” too forward, or would Josh find it funny?_ —when he realizes the shoulders beneath his hands are shaking. 

“… Josh?”

Chris can’t see Josh’s face, but he can hear the wet sniff, can feel the dampness on his shirt. Fuck. Has Josh… has Josh been crying?

“Hey, bro?” Chris tries again. “You, uh. You okay? Don’t tell me I’m  _that_  bad at this?”

“Fuck,” says Josh, snorted out with a wet burst of half-laughter. It doesn’t sound like nice laughter. “Fuck.” He rolls away, onto his back, hands running down his face to hide it from Chris’ scrutiny. 

There’s definitely a wet patch on Chris’ shirt and a sick, queasy feeling in his gut. He may be the biggest virgin to ever virg, but he’s pretty sure crying after sex isn’t a fantastic sign.

“Talk to me?” he tries.

“Fuck,” Josh says again, like his mouth is on loop and that’s all that’s coming out. “Fuck. It’s not you. It’s me.”

“Uh…” Is Josh breaking up with him? Were they even going out? Is Chris about to have the fastest first relationship ever in the history of time?

What Josh says is:

“You know how long I’ve wanted to do that? To fuckin’ blow you? Ever since I first walked into that fucking Robotics class. Half the reason I was failing is because I’d spend the whole time thinking about sucking your dick rather than listening to Ms. Anh talk about what-the-fuck-ever. I’d imagine doing it under the desk. While you sat there in front of the whole fucking class. Trying to pretend nothing was happening, answering dumb-ass questions, voice squeaking. So fucking hot.”

Chris does not mention this fantasy would be impractical, given the style of desks in their classroom. Instead, he feels his dick twitch. Just a little.

“Wow,” he says. “Well… Um. I used to imagine taking you to the cinema? And, like. Making out in the back row?” He feels the blush creeping across his cheeks. “Um. I guess… I guess that’s kinda lame.” He tries a self-deprecating laugh, but Josh is scowling up at the ceiling like Chris has just confessed to national secrets.

“Fuck,” Josh says. “It’s not lame. It’s fucking sweet. You… you deserve it. Deserve someone you can do it with.”

Chris blinks, wonders if he’s being too subtle. “Um, yeah,” he says. “About that. I was, y’know. Kind of hoping I could do it with you? Hence you being in it?”

There’s a long, awful pause during which Chris wonders if he’s somehow said the wrong thing. Or read things wrong. Maybe Josh just doesn’t like him in that way?

Josh says:

“You’re so fucking cute. I like hanging out with you. A lot. And we can fuck. Whenever you want, really. I mean it. But I can’t, like, do the boyfriend thing. I’m not… I’m not that guy.”

Chris says:

“Oh.”

Then:

“Um. Is this… is this some aro thing? Like, ‘cause we don’t have to do all the roses and hand-holding shit. I mean, if you’re not into that?” Chris totally is, and would totally like to do the hand-holding shit with Josh. But if Josh isn’t down for it, then whatever. Chris will deal.

“Fuck, bro.” Josh smacks a fist against the bed, his voice sounds like it’s coming from behind the clenched wall of his teeth. “Fuck. Why do you have to be so fucking…” He trails off.

Chris sits up. His heart is racing and the buzz from the orgasm is definitely gone, replaced by a queasy sick roil. This isn’t going how he planned. None of it has been, but now it’s going  _badly_  not-how-he-planned. “Dude,” he says. “If… if you don’t like me, then—”

“I fucking told you!” Josh snaps. “It’s not that.” Something glistens across the purple bruise around his eye socket, and it takes Chris a moment to realize it’s a tear.

There’s silence, long and awful, broken only by Josh’s wet sniffing. Chris searches desperately for something to say. Some magic combination of words that will stop Josh from… whatever it is Josh is doing. Slipping away, except maybe Chris never really had him in the first place.

Eventually, Josh says:

“Fuck. You know… you know what my dad does, right?”

Chris shrugs, unsure what this has to do with anything. “Kinda?” he says. “He like, does films or something?”

Josh nods, his eyes fixed, dull and rigid, on the shitty glow-in-the-dark stars Chris’ ceiling.

“I used to go with dad,” Josh says. “Like, to Hollywood. Hang around on his sets and shit like that, y’know?” Another one of those awful sort of pauses, and Chris can see Josh’s jaw, working back and forth behind his cheeks.

Finally, Josh says:

“You know how many fucking pedos there are in Hollywood?”

And Chris feels like he’s been punched in the gut.

“‘Cause I do,” Josh is saying. “I was fifteen when Dad finally caught me. Blowing the producer out behind the sound stage.”

“Holy shit,” Chris tries to say, the words piling up in an awful collision behind the logjam in his throat. He swallows, manages to choke out, “I’m sorry.”

Josh just shrugs. “It’s not like I didn’t fucking want it. It was my fucking idea.”

Chris tries not to think of all the shadows lurking behind those three awful words,  _finally caught me_. Instead, very carefully, he says, “Dude, I… I don’t think it works like that. When you’re fifteen.”

“Now you sound like my fucking shrink.” Chris has no response, so says nothing. Eventually, Josh continues. “Dad fucking flipped out. Threw me on a plane and sent me home that afternoon. Mom cried. Like, for days. She and Dad would get into these huge screaming matches… I dunno. Mostly I was too wasted to really listen. Dad stopped coming home for a while. He still had to work, I guess. Mom wanted him to go to the cops… shit got pretty fucked up. Still is. Worse than after… after the accident with…” With his sisters, he doesn’t add, but Chris can hear it.

“Fuck.” He doesn’t know what else to say. What else is there  _to_  say?

“Point is,” Josh continues, “I’m fucked up, bro. I wreck everything. Myself, my parents. Been kicked out of half the schools in the county, ’s how I ended up in your fuckin’ Robotics class. I can’t do your kissing-in-the-cinema, same-noodle-on-the-pasta-plate, high school crush shit. I don’t…” He squeezes his eyes shut, voice breaking, just a little. More tears, Chris thinks. Quiet and awful. “You deserve someone better,” Josh finally says. “To do that shit with. Some other cute nerd who still remembers to blush when he thinks about dick. Not… not something like me.”

Something, not someone. Josh mentioned having a shrink, and Chris is suddenly grateful for it. This conversation is… heavy. Maybe the heaviest he’s ever had. And he’s angry, too. At the universe, but also at Josh, for thinking such bullshit things. About himself, and about Chris. 

Which is why he says, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t give a shit about what you think I ‘need’ or ‘deserve’.” He makes the little quotes with his fingers. “I know what I want. Which is you. And I know you’re, y’know. Messed up. The whole goddamn school knows that. I don’t care. You’re hot. And I like hanging out with you. The”— _abuse_  won’t come out, so—“the other stuff… I’m sorry you had that shit happen to you, man. No one deserves that. But it doesn’t change the way I feel.” There. Presentation in Robotics class nothing.  _That_  was easily the most daunting speech of Chris’ life. Particularly when, in response, he gets the sound of Josh’s fists, beating against the bed.

“Fuck, bro,” says Josh. “Fuck.”

“No,” Chris says, even though it wasn’t a request. “I’m not going to… to use you like that. But we can be friends. And when you’re ready, if you’re ready”—he grins, lopsided and bittersweet—“you can take me out for Italian, and we can share that bowl of spaghetti.”

“That easy, huh?”

“Yeah,” Chris lies. “That easy.”


	4. “Is it because you think you don’t deserve to be happy?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Serious **content warning** for the end of this chapter:  implied attempted suicide.

It isn’t easy, it’s fucking torture. Josh endures it for nearly a month, which he thinks is quite possibly the longest he’s ever endured anything in his shithole of a life.

He hangs out with Chris at school and Snapchats on the weekends when they’re apart. They play videogames and roam aimlessly at the mall, and Chris takes Josh home to meet his family. Josh starts to make sort-of friends with Chris’ crew of nerds, and even tells his therapist and his Mom.

“He sounds like a nice boy,” Mom says. “Do you  _like_  him?” She has a gleam in her eye that makes it clear what kind of “like” she means.

Josh shrugs, poking at his dinner, hiding his face beneath his hoodie. “Does it matter?” He hasn’t told her Chris is gay. He has told her about Ashley. Let her draw her own conclusions. 

“Of course it matters, honey.”

“It’s not like anything will happen.” Chris won’t do the friends-with-benefits thing, so whatever. 

“Is it because you think you don’t deserve to be happy?” Another day, another conversation about Chris, this time with Dr. Hill. Hill is possibly the least most useless shrink Josh has had, which isn’t saying much.

“It’s because Chris does deserve to be,” Josh tells the ceiling. Dr. Hill does not have a therapist’s couch, so Josh does this while lying on the shitty carpet.

“From what you’ve told me, Chris seems to think he’d be happy with you.”

“Yeah, well. Chris thinks a lot of dumb shit, like  _Star Trek_  being better than  _Star Wars_.” Some bullshit about hope or whatever. Very Chris. “I don’t make people happy.”

“Even if that were true,” Dr. Hill says, “don’t you think it’s something Chris should be allowed to decide for himself?”

_I don’t want him to,_  Josh thinks.

* * *

He cracks the next time he gets cornered by McIntyre. It takes Josh a moment to understand what’s going on, given that it’s been so long most of his bruises have cleared up, and it’s not until McIntyre says, “Been having fun? Hiding behind your little kike jihadi faggots?” that Josh realizes McIntyre has left him alone because Josh has been spending most of his time with Chris.

He also wonders whether McIntyre knows what half the words coming out of his own mouth even mean. Josh wouldn’t claim to be an expert, but he’s pretty sure “kike jihadis” aren’t a thing, let alone queer ones.

“Fuck off,” Josh says. He pulls his hoodie up over his head and slams his hands into the pockets. McIntyre can do whatever. Josh has class to get to. 

He gets two steps before a meaty fist closes over his shoulder, hauling him back around and right up into McIntyre’s sneering, piggish face. His skin is the pale color of raw dough, shiny with grease and dotted with freckles like pink mould. “Look at me when I’m talking to you, ISIS.” Josh sees McIntyre’s other fist pull back, and he tightens the muscles in his gut in preparation.

“What do you think: ‘High School Football Star’s Shocking Racist Attack on Son of Acclaimed Director’.”

“Ooh, nice. Very sensationalist. Going for that A in Journalism class?”

“Don’t you know it. But not like you can talk, Little Miss Gonzo.”

McIntyre freezes at the sound of the voices, fist half raised. Josh feels the hilt of the switchblade in his pocket, sweaty from his shaking hand. Over McIntyre’s shoulder, he can see two people. The girl he recognizes from Film class. He thinks she has a single-letter name. Like Dee or… No. Em. Her name’s Emily. The boy, Josh doesn’t know, though McIntyre certainly seems to, judging from his growled, “Stay out of my business, Munroe.”

“Don’t make things my business and I’ll be happy to.”

“What do you think,” Emily says, “ten thousand notes on Tumblr in an hour, or twenty?” She’s holding up her phone, filming. 

“I think Coach Teague might be pretty interested in what’s going on here,” the guy, Munroe, says. “Given that whole thing last year with the code of conduct.”

“That’s right,” Emily says, as if she’s just remembering something. “Instant expulsion for repeat offenses, isn’t it? And with video proof.”

McIntyre makes a growling sort of sound, releasing Josh with a shove that sends him slamming hard against the wall. “You don’t got shit,” he says. Josh can practically hear the unuttered  _bitch_ , on the end, though McIntyre’s eyes flick to the phone and he bites it back. “Washington and I were just having a little chat, weren’t we, buddy?” He claps Josh on the back, hard enough to leave a bruise. Josh feels the smooth, polished handle of the switchblade beneath his fingers. He started carrying it after McIntyre cracked his rib. 

“Chat’s over, Austin,” Munroe says. “So fuck off. And next time you feel the urge to get ‘talkative’, remember there are a lot of eyes on you lately.”

“And everyone nowadays has a cellphone,” Emily adds. 

There’s a moment, long and tense. But it’s three on one, and Austin McIntyre always was a coward.

“See you ‘round, Washington,” he snarls. 

Josh watches him stalk off, feels his heart rate begin to slow and the weird shaky buzz in his limbs as the adrenalin wears off.

“Hey, man. You okay?”

Josh blinks, startled, and turns to find Munroe not three feet away, brows furrowed in concern.

“I…” Josh starts. Then, because he doesn’t know else to answer, “I didn’t even think that asshole knew my actual name.”

“I’m surprised he knows his own,” Munroe says, grinning. Very slowly, Josh feels his fingers uncurl from the switchblade.

* * *

Emily walks him to his next class. 

“My boyfriend, Mike? He was flunking hard outta Math last year,” she says. “Chris helped him pass.”

“Chris is a cool guy,” says Josh, because he believes it.

Emily doesn’t, judging by the snort. “He’s a  _nice_  guy,” she corrects. “And he’s done a lot of solids for a lot of people. They remember it. So when they see him getting leant on by Psycho-Boy Washington, they ask questions. And when the answer to those questions is that you’re okay, you’ve just got problems with assholes like Austin? People listen.”

“I get it,” Josh says. He’s never really spoken to Emily before. She’s kind of… blunt. He’s not sure he likes it, but he can appreciate it.

“Good,” Emily says. There’s a short silence, then, “So is it true? Are you really Bob Washington’s son?  _The_  Bob Washington?”

The question surprises Josh, because he didn’t really know it was in question. “Yeah.”

“How come you’re at this shithole of a school? Isn’t your dad loaded?”

“Got kicked out everywhere else,” Josh says. Drinking and fighting, mostly. Or fucking the wrong dudes at the wrong times. 

“Figures,” Emily says. “But if your dad’s a Hollywood bigwig, I bet that means you have access to some pretty sweet editing kit, right?”

Josh gives a half-grin, he knows where this is going. “Miss Jackson banned me from using any of it. Said it would be unfair. Strictly school-approved materials only.” Miss Jackson, their Film teacher. 

“She banned  _you_ ,” Emily points out. “But what about the rest of us?”

This time, Josh’s smile is real. “I’ll see what I can do,” he says.

* * *

Chris smiles whenever he sees Josh, now; eyes and brows and cheeks and everything. It’s the most beautiful sight Josh has ever seen.  _Chris_  is the most beautiful sight Josh has ever seen, and so if maybe Josh spends all of lunch staring, well so what? It’s funny, because he’d always thought Chris cute in a nebbish, nerdy sort of way. But the more Josh looks, the more he can see… something else. Something waiting underneath the acne and the terrible haircut. Josh tries to imagine what Chris will look like in a decade, strong-jawed and adult, dusted with soft golden hair and a warm pink smile. The outcome is so achingly enticing, it makes Josh’s heart physically hurt.

“Just ask him out.” Ashley, who’s noticed him staring. She’s leaning close, whispering so Chris can’t hear. “He’ll say yes.”

“It’s not that simple,” Josh says. He’s not sure how much Ash knows. Maybe nothing, maybe everything. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

“Only if you make it complicated,” she replies.

* * *

That night, Josh digs up every half-drunk bottle of vodka and whiskey from his bedroom, and empties them all into the toilet. Including the good stuff.

One month, he tells himself. If he can make it one month, at the end, he’ll take Chris out for pasta, and they can share a noodle from a single plate.

* * *

The first week is the hardest, afternoons the worst of all. He lays on his bed after school, groaning at the ceiling and dying for a drink. Chris is the only thing that keeps him going; texts and Snapchat and coop on the XBox. Josh hasn’t mentioned anything about his deal to anyone, let alone Chris, but he’s sure Chris notices his sobriety, notices the way his hip flask smells less like alcohol and more like Coke.

The soda is nasty and Josh hates the feel it leaves in his mouth but, on the other hand, it’s only going to rot his teeth, not his liver. Plus, it’s pretty funny when Mr. Morrison “catches” him with it and tries to confiscate it as contraband. Josh spins a story about the hip flask being the only relic he has of his uncle, who died fighting insurgents In The Name Of Freedom back in The Old Country.

“It’s how I remember why we came to America,” he says, and Mr. Morrison nods, stern and serious. Josh gets his flask back and, afterwards, Chris asks if the any of the story was true.

“I bought it at fucking Walmart,” Josh, who was born in California and has never lived outside the States, says. “Six bucks on sale. People will believe all kinds of shit, man. If you tell them what they want to hear.” The next time they see Mr. Morrison, Chris puts his hand over his heart like he’s reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, sniffing melodramatically, and Josh laughs so hard he nearly chokes.

Josh also deletes Grindr from his phone. That’s easier than the drinking, though he does end up spending a lot more time with his own hands, jacking off in the bed or in the shower, imagining what it’ll be like when it’s Chris’ fingers wrapped around his shaft, Chris’ palm cupping his aching balls. 

Fuck. He’s so screwed. So fucking screwed. He’s never felt like this about anyone before, not ever. And it’s awful and amazing, all at the same time. Not to mention the sobriety means he experiences every single moment of it, in glorious, aching recollection.

“You seem happier, lately,” he mom tells him one morning. When she hugs him, Josh thinks she looks like she might cry.

* * *

He prints out a calendar for the month, leaves it on his bedside table and marks off each day with a big black X. Things get easier after the first week, and by the end of the third Josh knows he’s got this. Is picking restaurants, in fact. Ticking them off in his mind, imagining how things are going to go over and over in his head. The way Chris will smile, the pink flush on his cheeks, the tomato taste of his lips. Fuck Robotics class.  _This_  is the achievement Josh is proud of, this is the lesson he doesn’t want to fail. He can totally do it, too. He doesn’t even crave the alcohol anymore, is enjoying the feel of waking up without a hangover. He’s happy, his mom is happy, Chris is happy, and Josh can totally do this. Four more days. Four more days, and he’ll ask Chris out for Italian. A new life for a new Josh. He can do this. Totally.

And then, t-minus three days and counting, Bob Washington returns from LA.

* * *

“So who’s Chris?”

Josh tries not to flinch at the sound of the name, spoken in his father’s voice.

“Who?” His fork scrapes against his plate, making mountains out of rice. 

“Josh.” His father draws it out, deep and disapproving. Josh shoots one short look at his mother, betrayed and angry. He  _trusted_  her. He trusted her, and the bitch fucking tattled, and now it’s going to be like the time in LA all over again. Dad is going to fucking flip his homophobic shit, over nothing, and Josh is going to be banned from seeing Chris and—

“Josh. I’m waiting.”

“Fuck!” Josh stabs a pile of lamb. “He’s no one, okay? Just some fucking nerd in my Robotics class. He’s— he’s no one important.”

The lie sounds unconvincing, even to Josh’s ears. His father’s brows draw down into a dark scowl. Josh knows that look. He’s known about it since that shitfucker of a day when he was fifteen. “Don’t you take that tone with me, Joshua Washington.”

Josh’s ribs are healing, but they still hurt enough—the memory of Austin McIntyre’s fist slamming against them is still enough—that Josh says, “You know what? Fuck you. Fuck your ‘Josh Washington’ bullshit. That’s not even my real fucking name you cowardly, hypocritical piece of shit!”

“Joshua!” Both Mom and Dad say it at the same time, even if their expressions differ. Josh doesn’t care. All he can think about is Chris, and his dad, and a hand-shaped set of bruises on his arm, long since healed. 

“I’m not hungry,” Josh says. “I’m going out.” He doesn’t know he is until he says it, until it becomes true. He’s going out. Nowhere in particular, just not here.

“You get back here right now!” The scrape of wood against tiles as Dad stands up. “Joshua! You listen to me!”

But Josh doesn’t.

* * *

He doesn’t have to go far. Just a twenty minute drive, he tells himself. To calm his shaking hands. A twenty minute drive, a shitty bar he knows won’t check ID. Just one drink. Just the one. It’ll be okay. He’s been so good. He can stop at one.

* * *

He can’t stop at one. Eventually, he has to admit this. Even to himself.

* * *

He isn’t sure how he gets home, only that he does. The world spins and the night is a blur, but he staggers in the back way so as not to disturb his parents. He’s worried they might be waiting for him in his room, and isn’t sure what the emotion he feels is when he realizes this isn’t the case.

_Huh,_  he thinks.  _Figures._

His next coherent memory is a desperate need to piss, and so he stumbles into the bathroom. He thinks he hears something; a buzz or a knock or maybe both, but he ignores it. Just locks his ensuite door and crumples to the tiles. It takes him another five minutes to get to the toilet, two to get his dick lined up to take a leak. As he does, he notices something stuffed into the frame of the bathroom mirror. His calendar, Countdown to Chris written across the top, rows full of Xs down below. Three empty boxes that are never going to be filled.

He ends up back on the floor, sobbing, crumpled print-out in one hand.

_Why did you ever think you could do it?_  says a voice inside his head.  _Why did think you can ever be anything but a fuck-up?_  Tonight, the voice sounds like Chris.

Eventually, Josh stands. There’s a box of razors in his bathroom cupboard, the old fashioned kind. Tonight, he opens them up.


	5. “I got your texts. Fuck you, man. Fuck. You.”

When he wakes up, it’s to thirty-seven new messages. Mostly texts, a few calls. All of them from Josh. 

Chris curses, blinking his eyes and bringing his phone so close his nose smudges the screen. He’s still in bed, his glasses still on the nightstand. He has another thirty minutes before he really has to get up for school—forty if he pushes it—and he was planning on spending it whacking off, thinking of Josh.

Josh, apparently, has decided sometime in the night to help Chris with the latter, if not the former. Chris decides he can do double-duty, sneaking his hand into his boxes even as he unlocks his phone and starts to read.

Thirty seconds later, he feels like someone’s reached into his chest, is squeezing his heart hard enough to cease its beating.

Forty-five seconds later, Chris is lurching out of bed, frantically hitting redial.

* * *

No one picks up for an hour. It is, Chris thinks, the worst hour of his life. Even then, the voice that answers him isn’t comforting.

“H-hello?” A woman. Her voice is choked, like she’s been crying. Like she still is.

“I… Is Josh there?” Chris asks. 

There’s a pause, long and awful. Then the voice says, “Who is this?”

“Um,” Chris says. “My name is Chris. I’m in Josh’s—” He doesn’t get any further. Not when the only thing he can hear down the line is weeping.

* * *

His parents let him take the day off school, Dad driving him to the hospital, faces ashen and lips thin. “Call if you need anything,” he says as Chris gets out. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come in with you?”

“It’s okay,” Chris lies. “I’ll be okay.” He won’t be. Mostly, he just doesn’t want his dad to see him cry.

The hospital is huge and white and expensive, all sparkling fountains and impeccably manicured gardens. Chris hates it, because he thinks Josh would hate it. Hates the kind way the soft-voiced nurses tell him where to go. Hates the lemon and pine smell of bleach. Hates the rotten blood-stink of death underneath. 

He gets halfway down the hall before wondering if he should have brought something. Flowers or a card or some shit. What even is the right shit to bring, in a situation like this? Chris has no idea. Chris could quite happily have gone his entire life with no idea. 

There’s a man sitting at the end of the hallway. He’s hunched over, head in one hand, glasses in the other. He looks up when Chris’ shoes squeak on the linoleum, and his face is instantly recognisable. Chris has seen dozens of times it in making-ofs and during audience cut-tos at award shows. 

Funny, Chris thinks. He knew Josh was Bob Washington’s son. But now he  _knows_. 

“Um,” says Chris. He’s terrified, heart fluttering, hands damp with sweat. He suddenly knows where Josh gets his railroad-spike stare from.

Bob Washington stands up. Chris can’t think of the man in any other way than his full name, wonders when the music is going to swell and the camera is going to sweep through the carefully rendered 3D text. It’s a weird though, a stupid thought. Bob Washington does not look like an award winning Hollywood mogul. Here, today, he looks small and sad and tired. 

He slips his glasses on. “Chris?” he asks. 

“Um,” says Chris. He’s still processing the fact that  _Bob Washington_  knows his name. Still trying to leap over the gap between as-seen-on-TV and as-bitched-about-by-Josh. “Y-yeah,” he finally manages. “I… I’m Josh’s friend? From school? I… Josh’s mom said—”

It’s as far as he gets. Because Bob Washington is making a strange noise, a kind of a choked-back sob. Then he lunged forward, and pulls Chris into an embrace. 

It’s weird. Being hugged by someone else’s dad. Someone else’s  _famous_  dad. Chris has no idea what he’s supposed to do in return. Is still thinking about it when Bob Washington takes a half-step back, hands on Chris’ shoulders. “Thank you,” he says. “Thank you for coming.” There’s a strange ache in his voice as he says it, and in that moment Chris knows—absolutely knows—that’s he’s the only visitor Josh will have. 

He doesn’t know what to say in response to that, doesn’t know if he can say it over the closed-up feeling in his throat. So he just nods, and bites his lip, and tells himself the blinking is from the bright lights and dry air and nothing else.

Bob Washington gives him a sad smile, dropping his arms with one last clap on Chris’ shoulder. “Go on in,” he says. “Josh is awake.”

Josh is awake, looking tiny and pale and fragile against the starched white hospital sheets. He looks up as Chris approaches, as does the woman he’s been talking to. His mom, Chris figures.

There’s a weird moment, still and silent, before Josh half-raises one hand in a little wave. “Hey bro,” he says. His arms are bandaged to the elbows, splotches of red-brown peeking through the white.

The next thing Chris knows, his arms are wrapped around too-thin shoulders, his face buried against a too-cold neck. “Fuck,” Chris hears himself saying. “Fuck. I got your texts. Fuck you, man. Fuck. You. You’re such a piece of shit.” He doesn’t let go, just lets himself soak Josh’s shitty hospital gown in snot and tears.

Josh doesn’t say anything, just brings his arms up to rest gently against Chris’ back in return.

* * *

Chris doesn’t know how long they stay like that, only that his head starts aching from the tears and Josh’s mom slips out to give them privacy. Chris feels like his heart is going to break, to shatter. Feels so much grief and so much anger that they must be spilling out of him, overflowing in messy splashes of red and blue. 

Eventually, he lets Josh go, drawing back only far enough to sit on the edge of the bed, hands still holding onto too-cold fingers, running across knuckles rough with healing scabs.

“You’re such a fucking idiot,” Chris says, because he doesn’t know how to say the words he really wants.

“Sorry, bro.” Josh seems very small and very raw, stripped down of his usual larger-than-life bad boy braggadocio.

“I read your texts.” Chris feels Josh flinch, but doesn’t let go of his hand. “What were you fucking thinking?”

“Sorry,” Josh says again. A long, awkward pause. Then: “I tried to be better. For you. I really did, I…” He stops, swallows heavily. “I told you I’m fucked up.”

“I fucking  _know_  that, you dickhole,” Chris snaps. “I told you already I don’t fucking care about that shit.”

Josh scowls, eyes focused on where Chris is still stroking his hand, gentle in the way Chris’ words aren’t. “Then why—?”

“Because,” Chris says. “I’m not some fucking Good Boy Prize you can award yourself, or can use as an excuse when you think you didn’t pass some test I didn’t even fucking set. That’s not how this works.” He’s angry. Really fucking angry, because it’s easier than being scared. It’s probably not what Josh needs to hear, probably not conforming to the Official Guidelines for Dealing With The Aftermath of Attempted Suicide. But whatever. Right now, Chris doesn’t fucking care. 

“Oh,” is all Josh says. 

Chris just sighs. “Look,” he says. “If you want to… to change, to get better, to whatever, then do it. But do it because it’s what you want, for you. Not me. I’m here for you either way. We’re friends. That’s how that works, okay?”

Josh nods. “Okay,” he says, though he won’t meet Chris’ eyes.

* * *

They let him go home that afternoon. The cuts on his arms aren’t deep and go the wrong way—Josh was too drunk when he made them—and though no one says it, he’s pretty sure they’ve classed him as a spoiled-rich-kid-cry-for-help suicide attempt rather than someone serious. Besides, he hadn’t taken off his watch. It monitors his heart rate, sends an alert to his parents if the beat gets too slow. If he’d been serious, really serious, he’d haven taken it off. 

Josh does not mention he’d been too wasted to remember about the stupid watch. He figures he’s made him mom cry enough today as it is.

Chris stays with him the whole time. “I got the day off school,” Chris says, all big gormless grin. “So you’re stuck with me.”

“Should do this more often, hey bro,” Josh tries. It’s a stupid joke and he regrets it as soon as he says it, as soon as he sees the hurt fall across Chris’ eyes. “Sorry,” he mutters, mostly to his own hands, twisting on the blankets. 

A brief, awkward moment. Then one of Chris’ hands closes over his, long-fingered and porcelain pale. “Bro,” he says, “if you wanna spend the day hanging out, there are  _way_  easier ways to go about it.” When Josh looks up, Chris is smiling, strained and sad but there. 

That’d been hours ago. Now, Chris has gone with Josh’s mom, under a vague remit of “getting the house ready”. A cute euphemism for hiding or tossing anything that might tempt Josh into a repeat of last night. Josh doesn’t say anything to stop them, even if it means he’s left alone with his dad. At least Mom seems to think Chris’ hair is made from pure-spun gold; she keeps touching him like she's not sure he's real. A Real Actual Friend sent special delivery from Josh's school, big and dumb and gentle and sweet. Chris is exactly the sort of friend, Josh thinks, that mothers want their sons to bring home. The sort whose idea of a wild night is three pizzas and an XBox. The sort who'll uncomplainingly lift things out of high places and open tricky jars and who scrub up well when required. The sort mothers describe as "a keeper".

Josh thinks his mom is right; he would definiely like to keep Chris.

He ditches the hospital gown, pulling on jeans and tshirt and jacket to replace it. The jacket is leather, a faux-worn ex-prop from one of Dad’s earliest films, one of the crap ones no one remembers. Josh hasn’t worn it in years, only dragging it out of his closet a few weeks back after Ashley had made some offhand comment about Chris’ obsession with bad boys. Josh supposes he counts for that one, jacket or not, but the costume changed had gotten him a, “sweet jacket!” from Chris and that, Josh supposes, is what his life is, now. Trying to make Chris happy, even with something as dumb as a shitty old jacket.

Dad is waiting for him in the hallway. The fluorescents are too bright, the smell of bleach too strong, the sight of Dad too  _everything_  for Josh to process.

“Ready to go?” Dad says. Then, before Josh can answer, “It finally fits you. The jacket.” He gives an aborted sort of gesture, like he’d been reaching out to touch Josh’s shoulder and stopped himself halfway.

“I guess,” Josh says.

“ _The Last Wasteland_ ,” Dad says. “My first big film. Terrible, but I’ve always had a soft spot for it. You would’ve been… four? About that. I took you out to filming in Arizona, you saw Jimmy Katz in that jacket and you spent the next month bugging me to have it. Jimmy used to lend it to you when we weren’t filming, and you used to run around in the desert, sleeves dragging in the dirt. It was so hot, I was terrified you were going to get heatstroke. Do you remember?”

Josh shrugs. He’s heard the story about a million times, and he thinks he can remember some of it; the heat, the dirt, the color orange and the way Uncle Jimmy’s teeth gleamed bright under the sun. The rest, he’s not sure if he’s  _remembering_  remembering or if he’s just heard his dad talk about it so much he’s remembering  _that_  instead.

Dad smiles, and the expression is as tired and old as that desert had been; barren and full of canyons and precipices. “Well,” he says. “I’m glad you’re getting some use out of it. Looks good on you.”

Josh doesn’t want to do this, this awful father-son whatever that Dad is trying. Josh’s arms itch from the cuts and his head feels like a cracked vase in a box full of cotton wool; a combination of blood loss and a hangover and who knows what-the-fuck-else.

“I want to go home,” he says, because he does. He wants to go home, and he wants Chris to be there, and he wants to put his head in Chris’ lap and sleep for the next year.

“Okay,” says Dad, trying another awful Death Valley smile. His teeth make Josh think of the bleached bones of long-dead animals.

They get halfway to the car before Dad decides to ruin Josh’s already shitty day with That Conversation. The one he starts, “So. Chris seems like a nice boy.”

“I’ve fucked him,” Josh says. It’s technically a lie, but it’s close enough and, hopefully, it’ll shut Dad up.

“Joshua…” It does not shut Dad up. Doesn’t shut him up, but does bring out the Disappointment Voice.

Josh has nothing to say to Disappointment Voice, and so doesn’t. After a moment, Dad continues with, “He seems very fond of you.”

Josh can feel his heartbeat speed up, can feel the sweat begin to slick across his palms. He wants a drink, wants a razor, wants anything to dull the memory of a hand, grasped around his forearm dragging him across asphalt and holding tight enough to bruise.

He says:

“Just drop it, okay Dad? You don’t have to… have to pretend you approve of my ‘lifestyle’”—he makes the air quotes—“just because I tried to off myself.”

Dad stops so suddenly at the words his shoes make horrible squeaking sounds against the floor. When Josh turns, he finds his father looking at him with an expression of… Honestly, Josh isn’t sure. Heartbreak? Horror? Something.

“What did you say?” Dad asks.

Josh shrugs, tries to pretend like he doesn’t give a shit. Because he doesn’t. Not any more. He can’t.

“I’m a fucking faggot, Dad,” he says. “I like dick. Big, thick, juicy dick. I know you don’t like it, but tough shit. It’s who I am.” There. He’s finally said it, finally come out to his father. Just in case there was any linger ambiguity from when Dad caught him with Bill Clarence’s cock down his throat.

Judging from Dad’s expression, maybe there was. Dad’s hand is over his mouth, his eyes very white and very round. “Oh god,” Dad says. “Oh god, Josh. You… is that… Is that what you think? That I have a problem with… with you being  _gay_?”

Josh blinks. That… is exactly what he thinks, yes. “I think you’ve made that pretty clear in the past, Dad. So, yeah.”

“Jesus Chris, Josh. I… Oh, god.” Josh isn’t sure he’s ever seen his father look so lost. Not even after what happened to his sisters. Not even in those awful weeks after The Handprint. Dad takes off his glasses, rubs at his eyes with his free hands, puts the glasses back on. And Josh… Josh starts to get a very strange feeling.

“Joshua,” Dad says. “Please listen to me: I do not have a problem with you being gay.”

Josh scowls. “Then what—?”

“I have a  _problem_ ,” Dad continues, “with seeing my son… my son exploited by men three times his age. I have a problem with… with knowing th-that was my fault, that if… If I hadn’t…” Dad’s voice cracks, and he stops, sniffs. Does something Josh is trying to tell himself is absolutely not wiping away tears. Finally, he says: “For god’s sake, Josh. I’m your father. I love you no matter what. All I want is for you to find someone  _you_  love and to be happy. I don’t care if that person is… is a Christopher or a Christine.” When Dad looks up, that expression is definitely heartbreak. And for the first time in a long time, Josh knows that he’s his father’s son.

“Does… does that make sense, Josh?”

Josh’s arms itch. Like a thousand tiny black ants are crawling just beneath the skin. He’d thought…

He’d…

_Oh. God._

He nods, bottom lip caught between his teeth as hot tears begin to track across his cheeks.

* * *

He gets a bunch of snot and tears on Jimmy Katz’ jacket. Not all of the mess is his, some of it is Dad’s. It occurs to Josh, standing in some shitty hospital corridor, face buried against his father’s shoulder, that he really hasn’t done this in a long time. His father feels… different that Josh remembers. Smaller, frailer. Not old yet, but definitely older.

In the car, on the way home, Josh finally tells Dad about Chris. About their dumb Robotics assignment and the stupid therapy seal. About Ashley, and Austin McIntyre, and how Chris’ taste in sci-fi is fucking terrible.

“Do you have a crush on him?” Dad asks, two blocks from home.

Josh, of all things, feels himself blush. “Aw, man,” he says. “C’mon.”

Dad laughs, light and real and Josh doesn’t know the last time he heard that sound. “We should invite him for dinner,” Dad says. “I could cook something, give your mother a break. It’s been a long time, but I think I remember how.”

“I dunno, Dad,” Josh says. “I still remember that time you burnt the water.”

Dad gives a faux-outraged gasp, then makes a shushing sound. “We made a blood pact never to speak of that again. Your mother still thinks we lost her good pots in the move.”

Josh is fairly certain this isn’t true—he’s heard Mom mention dad burning water at least twice—and is definitely certain he can feel the beginnings of a smile, tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“So what do you say?” Dad continues. “Cooking to impress your boyfriend. Any special requests?”

Josh opens his mouth, ready to protest, but the words  _I told you, he’s not my boyfriend_  die before they can escape. Instead, heart turning over in his chest, he says:

“Um. How about Italian? I promised Chris a plate of pasta.”


End file.
